


I took the road (and I fucked it all the way)

by martistarfighter



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (looking stunning), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Dynamics, First Meetings, How Do I Tag This, Jaskier is still a horny bard, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, M/M, Prince Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach has the brain cell, The Law of Surprise (The Witcher), no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martistarfighter/pseuds/martistarfighter
Summary: It’s too late to back away now. And thus Geralt doesn’t think and counters with “I claim the tradition as you have, the Law of Surprise. Give me that which you already have but do not know.”Queen Calanthe recoils, a shadow darkening her features.And Jaskier the bard steps forward with a murderous expression.“What! What in Melitele’s tits? Have you gone absolutely mad?!” He yells, fixing Geralt with an accusing stare that almost has him growling.“Julian!” Calanthe snaps, “Not now.”or — what if Jaskier was Calanthe's estranged son?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 37
Kudos: 388





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> A crucial premise: I have no clue what I’m doing. This started because a Discord bot gave me a prompt that said “Your estranged sibling unexpectedly dies and would like you to become guardian to their child”. After a quick brainstorming with my friends, the idea of Jaskier as Calanthe’s son was born. And oh, what an appealing thought it was.
> 
> I might continue this if the muse is kind enough. But for now I’m just posting this totally not beta’ed mess and calling it a night. Feral energy! Let me know if you’re also tickled by this AU concept?
> 
> Thanks to my lovely Geraskier pals for their splendid company and to Mumford & Sons for this title, which I will probably regret come morning.

* * *

**I took the road (and I fucked it all the way)**

* * * 

It’s been scarcely an hour since he stepped foot in the main hall of Cintra’s royal household and already Geralt regrets it.

He should have ridden away after taking the payment for his contract. And that’s what he would have done under any other circumstances, hadn’t he met one of his rare friends. The witcher hesitates even using the term _friend_ , but he and Mousesack have known each other for many years, and the druid has always been a trusted ally to him. Hence his ill-advised decision to attend this banquet.

“Geralt, I haven’t seen you looking this grim since the times of the Plague” Mousesack comments, after the third time he’s stalked off from a conversation with some pompous nobleman or curious lady without offering an apology.

“A witcher is a poor party guest” Geralt grumbles, his hand faintly itching for the hilt of a sword that isn’t there. He couldn’t be farther away from scared, yet he loathes the idea of being separated from his weapons. One never knows when danger or treachery might occur.

And the hall is so packed and filled with a nervous buzz that he’s ready to bet there will be more than a scuffle before the moon grows pale.

“Mayhaps, but he is no caged animal. Do sit back, enjoy the celebration for a while. The night is long, but the best part will begin soon.”

“And what would that be?” 

“Witnessing queen Calanthe’s blunt diplomacy when she berates the poor sods who think they have a chance at winning Pavetta’s hand” Mousesack promptly replies, and that gets a small chuckle out of Geralt. 

He’s heard many tales about the queen of Cintra, as savage on the battlefield as a ruthless lioness. He’ll enjoy the spectacle of haughty nobles and knights making a fool of themselves, if nothing else.

“You know her well?”

“Not really. But I serve Eist Tuirseach and he often visits from Skellige. If he had his way,” Mouseack smiles slyly, nodding towards a table to their right “he’d be at Calanthe’s side day and night.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s noncommittal hum is lost as the tall oaken doors slam open. Queen Calathe herself walks in, adorned with surefooted glory, a shining armor and streaks of dried blood across her face. No one seems particularly surprised by the sight, so Geralt has to guess this is a rather normal occurrence.

And to think he was forced to leave his swords outside.

He takes the moment as his cue to find a quiet corner, while everyone else is too busy praising the queen for her feats. To his dismay, Mousesack walks up to Calanthe and a man who must be Skellige’s earl, and after a quick bow he clearly gestures in Geralt’s direction.

The queen gaze is immediately on him and it’s a direct, calculating stare. It doesn’t bode well.

Geralt inclines his head in a nod as polite as he can muster, then he’s off to find some ale and personal space. Some quiet would be very welcome as well, but that’s asking for too much. 

A band of musicians and bards have already resumed their lively performance and the sound of lutes and viols carries over the many voices. A man is singing as well, and the witcher is decidedly not impressed with the salacious tune. 

At least it’s not a fucking love song.

*** * ***

Geralt is nursing a tankard of strong Cintran ale when he senses a light footstep approaching. He doesn’t look up from the rim of his cup.

“I love the way you just lean against the wall and brood.”

It’s clearly directed at him. It must be one of the noble idiots who’d think themselves so brave and genial for approaching a lone witcher in a ballroom.

“I’m here to drink alone” Geralt claims through gritted teeth. The warning is totally lost on the stranger, who decides to walk even closer.

“Not to sound quarrelsome, but you have chosen the wrong place and time for that, pal” Geralt meets the stranger’s eyes at last and he’s surprised to recognize one of the bards from earlier.

He’s young, his rosy cheeks flushed by the alcohol and the revelry, and his posture suggests a good amount of gall and naivety. He’s dressed in very fine garments - his golden doublet is threaded with silver and an exquisite floral pattern. 

“I sure did” The witcher agrees, hoping that will be the end of it. But the man just slings the lute over his shoulder and extends his right hand with so much enthusiasm that he almost sways forward.

“So lucky of you, to find another soul who’d rather be anywhere else! I’m Jaskier” The bard chirps, flashing a brazen smile at him. Geralt scoffs: he’s very tempted to take that hand and shake it hard enough to make the kid bristle. But he’s done nothing wrong, aside from being young and excitable and maybe a little too pretty for his own good.

When it’s clear that he’s being denied a handshake, Jaskier pouts “Fine, don’t introduce yourself. I know who you are anyway. You’re the witcher, Geralt of Rivia!”

“Fuck off.” He spits out. The bard simply throws his head back and giggles, before settling himself next to him.

Geralt glares at him and the only reaction he gets is another godsdamned smile. So he resolves to ignore the chatty stranger and look away. His gaze falls on the table at the end of the hall, where Calanthe is having a hushed conversation with the princess. Young Pavetta is as pale as a sheet and her mother wears a displeased expression.

“What a tragedy. This night truly can’t be over soon enough” Jaskier sighs, seemingly reading the princess’ mind.

“You were happily singing and prancing around just now” The words are out before he even realizes it and Geralt wants to smack himself, because the bard immediately turns doe-eyed and pleased.

“Aha, you did notice me then!” He has no reason to look that satisfied, the _idiot_ , “But I’m a troubadour, it’s what I do. And darling Pavetta asked me to, I can never say no to her.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow in silent questioning. He’s not familiar with Cintran etiquette, but he struggles to believe that any court would let a bard be so forward when speaking of the royal family.

This Jaskier must have a death wish on him.

“What are you doing here, then?” He questions.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Geralt rolls his eyes “I mean _here_ , pestering me.”

“Ah, easy. I am in need of some inspiration, if I am to suffer tonight without causing a scene, and you are by far the most interesting person in this room.” 

“And you’re trying to be the most annoying one, bard?” Geralt sees the look of pretend shock from the corner of his eye.

“Oh, please. _As if_. See if I help you, when the queen ambushes you” Jaskier declares with a defiant chin tip that would make an actor proud.

Geralt is, if possible, even more confused. How exactly could this well groomed man help him in any situation?

Their conversation doesn’t progress further as Mousesack soon advances to let the witcher know that Calanthe has requested his company at the royal table. The druid’s gaze lingers on the bard too, for some reason.

“Called it” Jaskier mutters just as Geralt heaves a defeated sigh. 

“Your presence would also be welcome-” Mousesack flinches and stops in his tracks, because the bard has already disappeared to mingle with the crowd, after throwing a suggestive wink at Geralt.

_What the hell?_

Princess Pavetta must really like this one, Geralt reasons as they make their way to the dais. He feels more on edge than he should be, with no monsters in the vicinity and the medallion cold and silent against his skin. He supposes it’s just the lack of sleep and proper food finally getting to him.

Soon enough Jaskier is back to his loud singing.

_And years ago I took the road_

_Not for land, not for gold_

_All I ask is that a flower I may take_

_And everywhere leave joyous hearts in my wake_

_Won’t the rose of Cintra give me a smile, a smirk?_

_‘Tis true, my home I left, but never on a lark_

_Some may call me a lost pup_

_Me, I call myself a buttercup…_

Queen Calanthe audibly snorts at that, shaking her head. Geralt looks at her and frowns.

* * *

Things go to absolute shit rather quickly after that. 

And Geralt finds himself involved. Of _fucking_ course. Serves him right, for trying to defend a man burdened with a vicious curse.

_Don’t you ever learn, boy?_ He hears Vesemir’s voice taunting him at the back of his mind. 

“I cannot start a new life in the shadow of a life debt” Duny says, in front of their awed and rattled audience.

It’s too late to back away now. And thus Geralt doesn’t think and counters with “I claim the tradition as you have, the Law of Surprise. Give me that which you already have but do not know.”

Queen Calanthe recoils, a shadow darkening her features.

And Jaskier the bard steps forward with a murderous expression.

“What! What in Melitele’s tits? Have you gone absolutely _mad_?!” He yells, fixing Geralt with an accusing stare that almost has him growling.

“Julian!” Calanthe snaps, “Not now.”

“Yes, mother, _now_! I’ve kept silent long enough, and look at what you almost did!”

_Mother?_

There’s no time to dwell on that absurd realization, because not three seconds later, Pavetta keels over and retches. The panic in her teary eyes is unmistakable.

Shocked murmurs arise from the crowd as Geralt feels his vision going white with dizziness.

“Fuck.”


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier pops back to Cintra for a visit after six years. There are many surprises waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I’m back. It’s safe to say that when I saw the number of comments and subscriptions on this my heart skipped a beat. I'm scared and flattered!
> 
> So I guess we’re doing this, folks! My updates will be slow, because I’m working on other stuff and this is my first attempt at a long-fic, but A for effort, right?
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments. A special thanks goes to Alex and Maize for being adorable hype beasts, and to the people on the Discord server (who’s holding the brain cell tonight? Who knows!)
> 
> Have fun reading this, you get a Jaskier pov this time around! Let’s get to know this version of our favourite bard.

* * *

**I took the road (and I fucked it all the way)**

* * * 

If someone were to ask Jaskier whether he believes in Destiny, he’d nod and spin a theatrical answer on the spot. Of course he does — he’s a poet.

But does he _care_ for Destiny? Not particularly, outside of the daily reveries and the songs he composes with great attention to details.

Sure, he can be a maudlin fellow, but his years of studies at Oxenfurt have taught him some valuable lessons.

While philosophy and theology suggest that it would be foolish to disregard completely the invisible ties binding reality together, history argues that men’s behaviour throughout the centuries speaks more of ingrained human nature than fate.

Who is Jaskier, according to Destiny? He’s prince Julian Alfred, firstborn son of queen Calanthe and late king Roegner, brother to Pavetta and future ruler of Cintra.

Except that’s not true anymore. Not since he decided to renounce his title and claim to the throne to follow his true calling. 

The bardic profession, some might say with a derisive scoff. He calls it experiencing life as it was meant to be, finally feeling able to breathe in deeply the scent of freedom.

Now he’s just Jaskier. Well, not _just_ , he likes to think he’s quite the accomplished young man. Singer, lyricist, storyteller, master of the seven liberal arts and lover of the finer things life has to offer. 

The whole Continent has been home to him for the past few years, as even Oxenfurt, with its hustling Academy, was simply too small for his soul to be content for much longer.

Through coastal towns and thriving valleys he sings his heart out and he charms and dazzles every audience — or he makes a valiant effort to do so, at any rate.

He hasn’t been in Cintra in something like six years. As far as he knows, he’s still welcome in his homeland, even if his mother made it crystal clear that there’d be no going back from his choice. Which suited him perfectly.

He’s kept away on purpose, for a number of reasons, the first of many being his distaste for a place where some would still recognize him as Julian, the renegade prince, the family outcast. Jaskier might have a hidden, masochistic streak, but it doesn’t stretch that far.

And truth be told, he rarely thinks about his old life and family. He misses Pavetta, but he suspects it’s rather the idea of a sister he misses, for six years is a long time, and he has no idea how alike or different they are now.

He never stays too long in the same place, but he’s very much not alone. And even if he has many unfulfilled desires and questions still, he doubts his cravings could be satisfied in that kingdom.

So Jaskier never entertains the thought of going back. Until he receives a missive from Pavetta, concerning her impending betrothal.

Something lurches in his chest at the sight of the Cintran seal paired with a delicate handwriting that can only belong to his sister.

By the end of it, he’s surprised to feel tears pricking his eyes. He’s not one to cry out of pure sadness. But Pavetta’s signature, coupled with those last lines, has brought him back to another time in the snap of a finger.

_I miss you as much as I miss stealing custard pies from the kitchens when our nanny was distracted. If you can make it, I will consider that to be my best wedding present. Be safe, Jules._

Jaskier sniffs and chews on his lip. The parchment now resting on the table seems to stare at him in silent judgement.

“I guess it’s time I paid them a visit” He murmurs, and there it is again, that urge to flee to the most remote corner of the Continent.

He asks the barmaid for one more cup of mulled wine and embraces his lute.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll start planning his trip back to Cintra. For now, he plays.

* * *

The Cintran flag waves in the crisp morning air. Three golden lions on a blue field roar and bear witness to the unfolding reunion. 

“Julian.”

“Mother.”

Jaskier snuck in through the kitchens, after waving his invitation to the many guards stationed by the castle walls, but he should have known there is no ambushing the lioness of Cintra.

Apparently she is still keen on rising at dawn to train with the royal knights. The men are quickly dismissed with a curt bark and Jaskier throws an apologetic smile at the youngest of them. Tomasz? Torrand?

He idly wonders if he remembers their fumbling kisses by the stables.

“Pavetta will be so relieved you made it on time” Calanthe offers as she offhandedly wipes at the sweat trickling down her neck. She looks as stern and put together as Jaskier remembers.

“Am I to surmise that you are the opposite of relieved?” They speak their mind with no remorse, they’ve always had that in common. Even if the queen doesn’t mince her words, while the bard — well, he is very fond of rhetorics and hyperboles.

“Don’t be foolish. You can come closer, you know. You used to be so scared of my swords” She doesn’t press, but Jaskier understands the underlying questions just fine.

_Are you afraid? Who have you become? Was I right in letting you go?_

“My love for swords hasn’t especially grown, I must confess. Though I remember some of your handy tricks and I know my way around a dagger.” 

Nothing about this conversation would suggest it to a stranger’s ear, but it’s a small peace offering on both sides.

Even if Jaskier knows precisely what’s going to happen soon. And he’s under no impression that he will be able to find much love for Calanthe in his heart, while he watches her parade his sister for a horde of suitors.

To _hell_ with tradition and sacrifices in the name of the kingdom. Gods, he’s so tired already.

Calanthe says nothing as she assesses her son with a gaze that could mean all manner of comments. And here is a feature that sets them on opposite ends of the spectrum: for all his chattering and clever lies, Jaskier always, _always_ wears his heart on his sleeve. All it takes is a curious observer to notice it.

But the queen? Even the most perceptive eyes have been blindsided and mystified by the lack of emotions in her guise.

“I’m so looking forward to the opportunity of playing some of my best pieces for you” Jaskier offers when the silence starts to make him fidget. He twirls a thread at the hem of his travel cloak until it starts unravelling. 

“There’ll be no place for your old theatrics tomorrow.”

“What about my new ones?”

“Don’t. I will have to endure enough peacocking from green boys as it is” she’s smiling at last. Jaskier still can’t read her expression. She beckons him closer and this time he relents.

The courtyard is bathed in soft light and the sun casts a sort of halo on Calanthe’s imposing figure. Moments like these should be song-worthy. The story practically writes itself: a queen, a rebel prince turned bard, a reunion, a wedding on the horizon. Jaskier should feel compelled to whip out his song book and compose.

Instead, all he feels is lead weighing on his every step.

* * *

The reunion with his sister is lighter on his shoulders. Pavetta, now a willowy woman with the poise of a graceful lady, throws herself in Jaskier’s arms after only a brief moment of hesitation.

“Jules!” No one has used that moniker in a long time. It sounds weird, bittersweet.

“Hello, Etta” he kisses her cheek and pulls back to study her again, keeping their hands linked, “My, how you’ve grown!”

That’s about the most unoriginal remark to fall out of his lips in — ever. His old professors and peers would demand for his degree to be revoked on the spot.

But there are no Oxenfurt academics here and Pavetta’s smile is serene, almost too subdued. 

Jaskier has no name for the emotion squeezing hard at his temples now. The lovely face of a stranger — because that’s what they are now, strangers — morphs into memories vivid enough to make every other thought sway.

Jaskier takes a breath and grins like he’s about to put on his best performance yet.

He has no idea if the charade is convincing, but it helps him keep a clear head.

Supper is a bit of a tense affair. He tries to get out of attending and fails miserably when Pavetta points out that she’d love to dine with him at least this once, as all the court and more will be there tomorrow.

Jaskier is antsy through the whole meal, but he’s got the earl of Skellige on his right and he has to admit he makes for a great company. Eist looks at Calanthe like an adoring puppy, yet there’s a witty and solid spirit in him. Too bad his nephew resembles every brute and drunkard that Jaskier has ever met.

Pavetta nods meekly and stares into her plate for the better part of the evening. Not exactly the picture of a thrilled bride-to-be. Jaskier makes an effort to brighten up her mood with some tales that border on the salacious side, but it’s not the same thing without his lute, without people calling him buttercup and laughing mindlessly.

At least he’ll be able to sing and ignore nobility at the feast. But looking at his sister’s stiff posture, he finds that to be a cold comfort. One that tastes like sour compassion.

Later, when he retreats to his room for the night, he fully expects to end the day with some shots of vodka and a song or two. He’s not expecting the feather-light knock on the door.

“Jaskier, it’s me” Pavetta’s hushed voice has him raising an eyebrow. She’s even using his name, the only name he wants to be remembered by. Opening the door to let her in is the easiest action of the day.

“Are you alright?” He asks immediately, taking notice of the frown creasing her delicate features. It’s a distraught furrow that speaks of bad thoughts.

“Yes. I just wanted to talk to you, now that we’re alone.”

“Be my guest” Jaskier plops down on the bed, noting with some measure of irritation that it’s the most comfortable mattress his arse has seen in years. He pats at the space next to him and smiles when Pavetta sits down.

“When I wrote you — I wasn’t sure you’d come. I know you must be so eager to be on your way and leave Cintra. Whatever is going to happen tomorrow, I need to get this off my chest, or I fear I’ll go mad.” She exhales a shaky sigh.

She’s clearly nervous, and who could blame her? Jaskier is fully prepared to hear some distressed words about her imminent marriage, maybe even a rant aimed at their mother. He’d quite like the latter.

But as it often happens, reality is much more surprising than fantasies.

“I think…” Pavetta whispers, her tone getting impossibly low, “I’m with child.”

Jaskier's mouth falls open as he blinks. And blinks some more. When the words really register, he claps his hands and lets out the first real laugh of the day.

"Oh, this is amazing. Tell me everything!" He urges her. 

Now _this_ he can write a song about. He can already hear the opening lines floating in his mind.

***

Jaskier knows that he forfeited the right to having a say in family matters when he tossed away his old life. His feelings on the matter haven’t changed overnight.

But after the conversation he’s had with Pavetta, it’s not an easy feat to clamp his mouth shut. He’s never been especially good at keeping secrets.

That being said, he’s no fool either. The likely outcome of this banquet won’t be altered by a single bard, no matter how scrappy and vocal he is.

Thus he tries, he _really_ tries to shut up. By singing and drinking, of course.

He strums the notes he knows by heart and he basks in the chance to play with other skilled musicians. It’s the perfect distraction.

Until he sees the witcher.

And oh, what a celestial sight he is. Long, white hair twined with silver, taut muscles wrapped in leather, a square jaw that cuts like a blade, shoulders wide enough to make his head spin.

When Jaskier wanders closer he notices the telltale yellow in the witcher’s eyes, molten amber that shines in the torchlight. His mouth is suddenly dry.

He’s never met a witcher before, and this must be _the_ Geralt of Rivia, the so-called butcher of Blaviken. He looks the opposite of menacing and bloodthirsty. In fact, he’s trying his best to blend in with the stone wall.

Jaskier has no choice: one, two, three steps and he’s caught in his orbit, studying the tense lines of that face as he blurts out the first opening he can think of.

For a while he forgets about everything else. He often experiences instant attraction, but this feels like — more. He’s transfixed and he almost sways as if he had one too many glasses of Toussaint red.

The way the witcher grunts"Fuck off", all growl and no bite, sends shivers down his spine.

The conversation is over too soon and later on, Jaskier’s gaze keeps drifting to the dais where Geralt has begrudgingly taken a seat.

Of all the places he could run into a witcher!

Only then his wits kick in and he realizes that his presence might not be a gorgeous stroke of luck. What if Calanthe knows about Pavetta’s secret lover and called him here on purpose? Can you even hire a witcher as a bodyguard? It would be just like his mother to try that.

Not even an hour later, Jaskier is holding on to his lute for dear life and cursing all deities for his decision to attend the feast.

There’s not much he can do. So Jaskier stays still when the mystery knight’s face is revealed and all hell breaks loose. He may have an emergency blade tucket in his doublet, but he’s still a mediocre fighter, and this is no tavern brawl.

_Well, fuck. Pavetta could have mentioned there was a curse involved._

Jaskier gaps in amazement when the witcher puts himself in harm’s way to _defend_ Duny. He’s struck by the sudden impression that he ended up in a bizzare fairy tale.

The feeling only increases when the night almost ends in tragedy and his sister — she lets out a scream so powerful that sends everyone flying away. Jaskier lands hard on his back and sees pitch black in his vision for a long moment. 

A violent storm picks up and shatters the windows. The air is charged, it smells of thunderstorms and ash. Whatever fairy tale this is, it’s a grim one.

Jaskier wants to yell but he feels like his head is about to split open at the seams. Are Pavetta and Duny floating in the eye of the storm now? That can’t be. Except that they are. Impossible and ethereal.

As he struggles to keep one eye open, he sees the witcher using a pillar for leverage and drinking something from a small vial. Then the rubble and the noise become simply too overwhelming.

Jaskier curls up on the floor and prays for everyone to be alive at the end of this. And for his hearing to survive.

* * * 

“Fuck.”

Yes, _fuck_ indeed. Jaskier has never had so much emotional whiplash in his life, and that’s saying a lot, for a man who frequently has to flee someone’s bed and run for dear life.

The witcher storms out of the room and he follows suit.

Instead of doing literally anything else, this impossible hunk of a man is looking for his sword. His yellow eyes are throwing daggers at Jaskier, but the bard is decidedly not scared.

“Hey! What are you going to do about-” Jaskier flails wildly to gesture at the hall they just left, “that?”

“Nothing” that lone word burns like an insult.

“Nothing?! I’m sorry, were we in the same room or was I hallucinating? Because I distinctly remember seeing Destiny manifest its will!, just now! So don’t you _nothing_ at me, Geralt!” Jaskier gasps, affronted, and with some quick steps he stands in the witcher’s way. He’s done with letting things run their course today. 

Geralt ignores him and their shoulders collide as he tries to walk away. Jaskier, undeterred, grabs him by the shirt and pulls until they’re staring hard at each other. And wow, his muscles are even more defined than he thought possible.

_No. Not now. Definitely not a good time to be turned on._

“Look, I don’t care if you’re a prince,” Geralt snarls, “like I told Calanthe, I don’t follow your orders. Back off.”

“I’m not a fucking prince!” He retorts with an angry shriek that has the witcher grimacing. Serves him right. 

“Haven’t been in a long time. I’m not part of the royal family anymore. I’m just a bard. And I ask again: where are you going?” Jaskier continues, letting go of his sleeve. They’re standing way too close and Geralt is the one who steps back first. Is this really the man everyone fears?

“What’s it to you, then?”

“I just witnessed you calling the Law of Surprise, tying your fate to that of an unborn child, and then walking away. _Someone_ has got to make sure you don’t do any more stupid things” oh, the witcher is _peeved_ , clear as day, but he does his damnedest to keep a stony expression. Jaskier feels a smirk growing on his lips.

“This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does, if you think you can just ignore this. Don’t you see? Pavetta’s child will be important to you, and you to them. We don’t know how yet, but it’s a fact.”

“He’s right, you know” Jaskier startles and turns on his heels, while Geralt merely groans. Eist’s druid, Mousesack, is standing on the threshold and dusting off his robes.

“This is on you too. You should have let me ride away this morning. I didn’t want to be here” the witcher has gone from angry to sullen in a heartbeat. He looks like a disgruntled cat, hackles raised in displeasures.

The picture painted in front of him is just so surreal that Jaskier feels a hysterical laughter bubbling up. With a surprising show of self-control, only a chuckle escapes his lips. It’s still enough to make Geralt look at him with that not-really-scary face.

Jaskier licks his lips as the song he’s been composing since last night blossoms like a field kissed by the spring sun.

“So, gentlemen, what now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Jaskier, I love you. What did you think of it? And if you’re curious to know how things will go in this AU, weeeellll, let’s just say that I have multiple ideas on my plate at the moment!
> 
> Let me use this opportunity to shamelessly promote a fandom challenge. If you’d like to beta read or make art for a Geraskier fanfic, please look up **geraskiermidsummerminibang** on Tumblr and read the info! We’d love to have you with us, especially if you’re new and looking to make some fandom friends :)


End file.
